


The ghost and the witch

by LetheSomething



Category: Ghost of Tsushima (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hair Brushing, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Smut, in that victorian sense where everything happens in badly hidden subtext and obvious imagery, ludicrous amounts of symbolism, many feelings but we can't talk about it, ridiculously poetic descriptions of nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26236774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetheSomething/pseuds/LetheSomething
Summary: Jin finds a much needed rest, healing and... quite a bit more when he goes to see an old friend.
Relationships: Jin Sakai/Reader Jin Sakai & Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

You scoop the dry green dust into the pouch, carefully checking the weight on a tiny brass scale. With a small wooden spoon, you stir the dust into the clay powder and dried grass already present, checking the contents of the pouch one final time before closing it up and using a few quick stitches to secure it.

  
"There." You add the pouch to the pile and hold out the order.  
"One bag of stomach salts for the Fushikawa boy, and five wound ointments. That should keep you going for a while longer."

The Ghost, sitting in seiza on the opposite side of the table, bows his head as he takes them.  
"Thank you."

He looks tired, sweat and mud mixing with caked blood on his brow.  
You're fairly sure it's not his, but that knowledge does not soothe you as much as you'd like. There are hard lines in that face, drawn by sacrifice and pain, etched in stubbornness and unwavering, never-ending pursuit.

"It would be better if you rested, lord Sakai."

He looks up. His eyes are clear and focused, crisp as the winds blowing up the northern cliffs of the island.

"Please, call me Jin."

"My apologies," you say, "force of habit."

"I don't recall you ever calling me 'lord' when we were young," he grumbles.

"That's because you wanted it too much back then," you grin.  
"But either way. Jin. Please take a rest. Your body cannot keep this up, no matter how tight your resolve is. You need actual sleep. You can stay the night if you want. You'll be safe here."

His gaze drops down and his brow knots, as if he's thinking over a new concept, something so foreign to him that it leads to confusion.  
Then he gets up. "The boy."

You're not about to argue. He's the most stubborn man you've ever met.  
With a sigh you follow him to the door of your house.  
"Then come back."

His retreating form stops briefly.  
The wind twirls leaves around his silhouette, outlined against the moss-covered trees.

It's late in the afternoon, and light comes down the canopy like droplets, skittering from branch to branch until it falls to the ground in ever smaller pools.  
Shadows rule here, hiding his face, obscuring even the horse trotting to his hand.

"I'll see what I can do," he says, and then he's off.

* * *

Rain beats like hooves on the roof, mercifully muffled by the thick layers of thatch and greenery that shield your abode from prying eyes.  
Still, for a short moment your heart stops when you hear the screen door softly slide open, and just as quickly, slide shut.

He stands there, slick with rain and glowing faintly orange in the light coming from the fire.

"Excuse my interruption," he says.

You shake your head.

"Welcome back."

Embers fall off a log in the fire, popping and crackling.  
The rain drums above you.

"Have you eaten?"

"A little," he mumbles, too stubborn to admit to hunger, but not composed enough to keep his eyes from wandering over the shelves for supplies you may have.

Movement comes to you in a sudden rush.  
"Sit down, I have some millet porridge leftover."

"You don't have to-"

You wave away his concern.  
"And I have water in the hearth, I'll draw you a bath."

"That's really not necessary," he starts saying, but he stops when you turn and raise an eyebrow at him.

"Yes it is."

For a long moment he halts, as if to take stock of the dirt, the sweat, the blood, the horse hair dampened by the rain but not washed away fully.  
He watches the fire, breathes in the smell of herbs that fills the very air inside this house and looks towards you, bustling over a pot of warm food.  
He nods.  
"Alright," he concedes, and gets comfortable on the floor.  
"Thank you."

* * *

Steam rises, curling and dancing in intricate patterns toward the rafters.  
Jin rests his back against bamboo planks and rolls his neck.  
The tub is just big enough to submerge his lower half in warm, fragrant water.  
Whatever it is you’ve put in there smells nice. Calming.

He takes a cloth and rinses it, before he wipes it on his face and shoulders, rubbing away what feels like years of grime and fatigue.

You’re tending to the fire, your form similar, but somehow more graceful than what it was.  
Your hair is longer, the skin on your hands rougher, but the years have not taken much else from you.  
Certainly the bright flame behind those eyes is still present, unrelenting and unyielding in the face of everything. 

You look up.  
“Did you want me to do your back?”

He blinks.  
“Uhhh.”

And then you smile, and that hasn’t changed either.  
Your lips curl up in a way that could be read as polite or mischievous, depending on the outlook. He’s always been fond of it. 

“Please,” he says. 

* * *

You sit on a stool by the bath and knead the heated skin on his shoulders between your fingers, the pads of your thumbs running small circles on his neck.  
His back is a patchwork of colours, from dark purple bruises to blues and reds and yellows.

You try to avoid the more painful looking blotches while you make your way down, but he does not protest at your touch.  
He’s silent, save for an occasional sigh and a roll of the neck. 

He’s grown, you notice.  
There is a dignity and a will to him that he lacked when he was younger.

You’re well aware of what he’s doing, the lives he chooses to take, and those he chooses to save.  
You know of the enemies he’s made.  
Part of you is very proud of him. Another fears for his wellbeing at every turn.  
The path he’s chosen is not an easy one to walk. 

“How long has it been since you last washed your hair,” you ask into the silence that sits on top of the rumbles of fire and the splash of water. 

“I’m not letting you do that,” he says lowly. 

“Can I at least pick out the leaves?”

He chuckles.  
“If that’s what you want.”

He leans back against the side of the tub and lets his head fall towards your knees.  
“Next you’ll ask me if you can shave me as well.”

“Would you let me,” you say, tugging at the cord that holds his bun together. 

He grins.  
“I just might.”

He closes his eyes and a curtain of black falls across your lap.  
You take a silver comb, one of your few treasures, and start gently tugging at the knots, unraveling the work of the sea and the wind.

* * *

Jin leans back and closes his eyes.  
Your comb runs across his scalp in languid, repeating motions, like waves lapping at a beach. He times his breathing to their rhythm and sits there, relishing in the soft intimacy of your hands. 

There is comfort in the motions of your fingers running across his head. The smell of camellia’s is faint but nostalgic as you comb out the strands and oil them. It’s been a long time since he felt this warm, this content.

“Can I ask you something,” he says. 

“Go ahead.”

“Why did you leave?”

Your hands pause for a second, but do not falter.  
Your fingers continue their gentle motion, starting at the scalp and gliding down to part the hair, followed by the comb. 

“I suppose they never told you.”  
He feels a weight to those words, but can’t quite make it out. 

“I have always wondered,” he says.  
“I didn’t really understand what happened. One day you were just gone.”

“Jin.”

The weight shifts.  
There is a pause, a silence in which your fingers keep moving and steam fills the void between the two of you.  
The rain outside has stopped, he notices, and then you take a breath. 

“We were close,” you say. “Close enough for people to notice.”  
Your voice gains a raspy edge, as if it is difficult to speak.  
“I was not good enough. Not for you.”

“That’s-”

But you continue before he can form the sentence.  
“It was decided that it would be best that I move north, so as not to needlessly distract you from your studies.”

He swallows.  
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know.”

“That was, perhaps, for the best,” you say softly, and your fingers start gathering his hair.  
“You were not in a position to do anything about it.”

You collect the strands in the palm of one hand, smoothing up any stragglers with the other. 

“The last I heard was that you were to marry one of clan Terushima’s retainers, but you didn’t.”

“I did not,” you hum behind him, as you coil his hair and tie it with a thin piece of string.  
“I’m sure he was nice enough, but I was never going to be some random man’s wife. I decided on a different path.”

You tap his shoulder and Jin sits up, takes in the herbs drying from the ceiling, the shelves of jars and powders.  
The pebbles, the statues, the trinkets.  
“You did,” he says, and he watches as you wipe down the comb and carefully fold it in embroidered silk, a piece of an old kimono he vaguely remembers, and store it in a box on the shelves. 

“Do you regret it?” he asks. 

You shake your head and carefully put away the oil.  
You rinse your hands in a bowl of water and dry them thoroughly.  
You set your shoulders before turning to him.

“No path is easy to walk, Jin. Especially if you follow what you feel is right,” you say, finally.  
“Some roads are smoother than others, but we all crash into the walls and thorns confining us eventually. Whether you pull back from the edge or push through is up to you. We all do what we must.”

“We do,” Jin says quietly.  
His eyes feel heavy now. The fragrant water hanging thick in the air seems to call out, beckoning his senses deeper into the mist.

When he looks up again, you are standing by his side, a towel in your hands. 

“And you must really rest, so get out of there while I pick up some more firewood in the shed.”

* * *

The birdsong of early morning filters through the blankets of vegetation that swaddle your house.  
The light will take a little longer to get here, traveling all the way from the top of the forest canopy like honey oozing off a spoon. 

You get up from a nest of fabric and straighten your clothes, combing your hair with a wooden pick before tying it back.

The Ghost lies on a mat in the corner, chest slowly rising and falling.

You poke the dying embers in the fire, sparking them back to life.  
There are many things to do: clothes to darn, balms to brew, but for now you are content to sit here and listen to soft breaths as you watch the sparks rekindle, adding branches to a fire that is sure to burn you if you continue to let it grow.

* * *

Jin Sakai adjusts the strap of his glove, tightening it.  
There is a dull ache in his chest that he didn’t notice before today.  
It has come to the foreground now that many of his other stings and pains have found relief. 

His breath is deeper, his head is clear.  
The deep, gnawing exhaustion that turned his every movement into a deliberate act, a decision to go on despite the waves crashing down, is shallow now.  
It tugs at his feet like mud, enough to annoy, but not to trip him, certainly not enough to stop him. 

You’re leaning against the door style, arms folded.  
Your lips are curled, smiling, but your eyes are not. 

He sighs.

The sun dapples you with blossoms of light, crowns you in golden glory.  
Slowly, his hand reaches up, fingers tracing the line of your jaw. 

You blink rapidly up at him.

“Jin?”

A sudden gust of wind whirls around you, tugging pieces of thatch off the roof and blowing strands of hair into your face, obscuring your vision.

He leans in and softly, briefly, places his lips on your forehead.  
“Thank you,” he whispers. “For everything.”


	2. Chapter 2

_“You’re new.”_

_Jin startles at the voice that seems to come out of the air itself.  
It has been six days since his uncle brought him to Castle Shimura, and it’s the first time he’s ventured this far out into the garden by himself.  
The grounds are vast and meticulously kept, but this area feels different, a low corner near the outer wall, mostly obscured by a large cherry tree. The small plot of land is utterly covered in white and pink petals, but it looks like someone is also growing a kitchen garden here.   
_

_“Are you the Boy?”_

_The voice calls out again and this time he spots its owner: a young girl up in the tree.  
She looks about his age, with two braids coming down her shoulders and dressed in a hakama of some quality.   
She looks out of place, in as much as anyone looks wrong stuck in a tree. _

_“What are you doing there?” he asks._

_The girl looks down at where she’s perched on a wide branch.  
“Sitting,” she says._

_“Well. Yes, I can see that,” he concedes._

_“The view is nice, you should try it sometimes,” she says with a half mocking smile.  
Then she starts clambering down.   
“They say lord Shimura has taken in a ward,” she goes on, as Jin takes a few steps forward, unsure of whether he should try to catch her. The girl ignores his panic and hops down in three calculated movements.   
“So that’s you, yeah?” she says when she drops to the ground._

_“Yes,” Jin says, composing himself. “I am Jin.. Lord Sakai.”_

_The girl does another one of her half-smiles and then finally treats him to a proper bow.  
“Pleased to meet you, Jin Sakai. I’m ___. My father is the head of the guard.”  
She points to the nearby tower.   
“He can see halfway across the island from there.”_

_“Well it is an important strategic location,” Jin says, parroting his homework from the past few weeks. “Whoever controls the castle, controls the island.”_

_You tilt your head at him.  
“Sure,” you say. “It sounds like you’ll fit right in.”_

* * *

He drifts into your house in the woods like leaves on an autumn wind, a quick slide of the door and suddenly he’s there, a presence that darkens the shadows cast by a late evening. 

“Jin?” You look up from your work.   
“Are you alright?”

He says nothing, and that is answer enough.   
There’s something wrong with his posture, a slump, a wobble, and you rush up to meet him and pull him into the light of the fire. 

“Show me.”

“It’s not as bad as it could be,” he mumbles, while you quickly remove his helmet and place it on the ground, antlers glistening a rusty red. 

“What happened?”

“Mongols,” he says, his voice hoarse, “Perhaps a few more than I had anticipated.”

“Were you followed?”

“They’re dead.”

“Alright.”  
You loosen the straps of his gloves and take them off, before setting to work on his pauldron.   
The leather is wet, the bands caked in something slick that combines with the shaking of your fingers and makes them difficult to dislodge. 

His hands, rough, scarred but surprisingly stable, fold over yours.   
“Let me.”  
  


“Right,” you say and you hurry to fill a bowl with warm water by the fire.   
You open a box by the fire and rifle through it, fingers scurrying over boxes and pouches and pots until you find the clearing salts, which you dump in the bowl.  
When you turn back, Jin has taken off his pauldrons and untied his armor.   
  


You point to a mat by the fire.   
“Sit.”

“It’s really not that bad, “ he says when you help him out of his chestpiece. 

“If you have come here for my help, it’s bad enough.”

He does not argue. He sits quietly while you wipe away the blood and assess his wounds.   
The gash on his arm is shallow if jagged.   
But there’s a cut in his side that looks deep. The edges of it are laced with a grey, ashy dust that smells of poison and rot.

You clean it off as best as you can.   
“We’ll have to hope it is not infected,” you say. 

He hums, a low sound that is more of a tremor than a response.  
You glance up to see his eyes are not looking at you, but through you, glass beads staring into nothingness.   
You put a palm to his forehead.  
Fever.

“Stay awake a little longer, Jin,” you find yourself saying, “I need you to hold this.”  
You smear ointment on his skin and place a piece of silk over it.   
Then you move his hand there.   
“Try to push down while I bandage this up.”

He nods absently and you set to work, moving as quickly as you can, trying to ignore the dangerous sway in his form, a mighty tree falling in slow motion.  
By the time you have bandaged his abdomen and his arm, he has mostly collapsed, barely staying on his knees, his head leaning against your shoulder to remain upright.   
His eyelids have fallen shut, although you can see his eyes twitch underneath.   
Perspiration beads on his forehead.  
“This will have to do,” you whisper.

With effort, you lay him down on the mat and cover him in blankets.   
His breath is ragged, shallow.   
You clear away your previous work and prepare a fresh bowl of water and a cloth, which you set by his side.

Outside, the wind howls an angry, desperate roar.   
You stoke the fire and brew a pot of tea.   
It will be a long night. 

* * *

_Jin closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of early autumn. The salt in the air mixes with the earthy scent of leaves and wood fires.  
After his time away at training camp, it feels comforting to return to his uncle’s castle.   
He stalks the grounds like a cat, reacquainting himself with its many nooks and crannies, taking stock of the small changes in plants and people.   
The sound of running feet wakes him from his investigation and he turns, smiling to see you racing towards him. _

_You’re improperly fast, bounding down the path like a wild foal that has just discovered the joy of speed.  
“Jin!”_

_You abruptly stop just short of him, then take a breath and bow.  
“Welcome back, milord,” you say, and Jin has to bite back a laugh at the sudden politeness. _

_“Thank you,” he manages instead. “What made you so excited?”_

_You look up with a sparkle in your eye.  
“The camellia’s started blooming! Come see?”_

_You turn around and dash off again, your figure a fluttering, billowing sheet tugged off the clothesline by a strong gale, free to whirl and spiral down the path._

_Jin shakes his head briefly and follows, measuring his pace while he watches you dance up the steps, until you stop and wait for him._

_“You’re slow,” you say when he catches up._

_“I’m Deliberate,” he argues._

_“Why?”_

_“A samurai does not rush into things.”_

_You nod thoughtfully and slow down to match his step.  
“Did you learn that at camp?”_

_“I have been learning that for a while,” he says._

_“Mmm,” you say, letting your fingers glide through the grass framing the path as you walk beside him._

_“What else did you learn?”_

_He thinks on it a while, and then something resembling a smirk forms on his lips.  
“I’ve been learning about women,” he says. _

_You raise an eyebrow at him._

_“Ryuzo says I should be careful with them. That some of them are out for my titles and money.”_

_You do not look convinced.  
“Who’s Ryuzo?” you ask. _

_“My friend.”_

_“Well he sounds like an idiot,” you say, shrugging._

_“He’s not,” Jin starts saying, but when he looks toward you, your face is darkened.  
“Besides,” he says “I’m sure he didn’t mean, uh, you.”_

_“What I’m ‘women’,” you say in a mock guffaw._

_“Depends on the definition,” he huffs._

_“Oi!”_

_Jin chuckles and sets off running toward the cherry tree, now chased by a girl calling him mean._

_When he reaches your small garden, the sight stops him in his tracks.  
The bushes, once a dull green, have sprouted dozens of small, perfectly formed pink and red flowers. They dot the garden like jewels glistening in the sun._

_“Aren’t they beautiful?” you say, coming up behind him._

_“They are,” he nods._

_He reaches out to touch one, fingers brushing over the small, soft petals._

_“My mother used to love these,” you say, wistfully running your hands over the leaves. “She’d wear them in her hair. She was so pretty.”_

_“I can imagine that,” Jin says quietly._

_“Huh?”_

_He turns his attention back to the flowers._

_“Why don’t you try one?” he says._

_“I sincerely doubt it would suit me, Jin.”_

_He shakes his head and chooses a perfect red bloom, carefully picking it off the branch.  
“Here.” _

_He hands it to you but you just hold it in your palm, staring at it, and then at him._

_“What?” he says. “Just try it. It will be like honoring your mother.”_

_“Right,” you mutter, and slide it into your braid._

_“There,” he says. “That looks very nice. I bet your mother’s spirit looks down on you with pride.”_

_You gently touch the bloom, a soft smile on your face as you look around the garden, resplendent in sunlight.  
“Maybe,” you say._

* * *

Jin’s body feels heavy, as if he’s dropping to the bottom of a bog, weighed down with stones and pricked with a thousand knives.   
His skin burns and his veins are filled with lead. 

He’s vaguely aware of movement next to him, of cool cloth soothing his forehead before his spirit sinks down into the muck again.

When he next wakes up, it is to the sound of wind rustling outside.   
He opens his eyes slowly, and tries to focus on the rafters high above him, laden with drying herbs. The smell of burnt wood hangs in the air and he becomes aware of a dying fire glowing to his side.   
He turns his head, and the movement feels like hammers pounding on an anvil. 

On the ground next to him is a bowl, a pile of bloodied bandages and, a little further on, you, curled up against a stool.   
Your hair is tousled, your skirts gathered around you and your face buried in your arms in a way that looks uncomfortable. 

The light of a winter’s morning seeps through a high window, casting long, stark shadows that stretch stalks into trees and bottles into towering columns.   
In the midst of it all your sleeping form stands out as an island of light, a sprinkle of silver dust in a sea of shadows. 

Jin closes his eyes again and lays back. He’s weary, and the pain sears through his veins, but he no longer feels like he’s drowning. The sack of boulders that sat on his chest has lifted.   
“Thank you,” he whispers. “Again.”

—

_Jin hurries down the steps to the cherry tree and finds you exactly where he expected, sitting amongst the fallen camellia’s.  
“Hey,” he says when he enters the space. _

_You do not move, don’t even shiver against the cold of a winter’s evening.  
“Hey,” you say. _

_The voice only barely sounds like you. A sound that he remembers being clear and melodious as birdsong is now nothing more than a scraping whisper, a tarnished bell filled with ash and sand._

_He approaches carefully.  
“I came to find you,” he says. “People are worried.”_

_You shrug._

_“I’m sorry,” he adds. “About your father.”_

_When he hears no response or protest, he takes his scabbard and slowly lays it before him, kneeling on the ground next to you.  
The two of you sit there, surrounded by the overly sweet, sickly smell of faded flowers. _

_“He died a warrior’s death,” Jin says. “He was protecting this place. Protecting you.”_

_You say nothing, but he can hear you breathe. A series of choppy inhales, followed by long drawn out sighs._

_“I understand,” he says. “How hard it can be. How difficult it is to face that loss. If there’s anything i can do-”_

_You shake your head.  
“Just sit with me for a bit?”_

_Jin nods and folds his hands into his lap.  
He closes his eyes and focuses on the quiet, on the shadows of the trees looming before him like stone monuments, on the cold sea wind carrying crystals of salt and ice to fill the sky above you._

* * *

“There’s a good horse.”  
Jin moves his arm to pat Kage’s mane but stops halfway, wincing at the stabbing pain in his side.   
“Looks like you’ll be resting here for a bit longer,” he says.

  
The horse nuzzles his shoulder, whinnying softly.  
Raindrops drizzle through the trees, cascading on an elaborate journey from branch to branch, only to fall to the moss beneath his feet with a dull, muffled plop. 

Moisture fills the air in this small clearing, droplets so thick he can taste them on his tongue. It deepens the shadows and further obscures this place, the house already veiled by layers of green and black like a widow mourning the passing of the summer sun. 

Jin carefully unties the bridle and takes it off. The horse immediately shakes out its head.   
“Feels nice, huh?” Jin says, and he moves to take off the saddle as well.   
“I’ll brush you down tomorrow, so enjoy the rain on your back while it lasts.”

His movements are slow and deliberate.   
The horse stomps its hoof. 

“Alright, alright,” Jin says when he finally loosens the saddle. “Off you go.”  
The horse takes a few steps, and the saddle slides off, dropping to the rain scattered ground.   
“This needs cleaning anyway,” Jin sighs.   
  


He watches as Kage wanders over to a basket of straw he put down and starts munching.   
Then he takes a deep breath and bends over to pick up the saddle, grimacing at the feeling of being sliced open once more.   
He straightens and blows out a breath. Kage eyes him from a distance.   
“Don’t you start,” Jin says.

When he enters the house, the scent that greets him is earthy, the herbs and wood he’s gotten used to now laced with something deep and gamey that makes his mouth water.   
He sniffs. “Hare?”

“It was in one of my traps,” you say, stirring a pot bubbling over the fire. “I figured you could use the strength.”

With that, you get up and take the saddle and bridle from him.   
“How are you feeling?”

“About the same as the last time you asked,” he says. “I’m… fine.”  
He walks over to the fire to sit down, and tries his very best not to flinch. He fails.

You give him a weary look. 

“But I could probably use the strength,” he adds. 

You nod and prop up the horse tack to dry.  
“How is he,” you ask. 

“Stubborn.”

Another weary look. 

“You don’t have to worry about Kage,” Jin says. “He’s not wounded, and he’s fine wandering around the forest for a bit.”

With a nod, you return to your cooking.You throw some chopped burdock root in the pot, and millet to thicken it.   
The feeling of being watched makes you look up. 

Jin sits, watching you make stew with a soft grin on his face. 

“What?” you say. 

“Nothing,” he chuckles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“But?” you ask, returning to your work. 

“There was a time when I would wonder what it could be like,” he says. “If you were to make something like this for me. Lord Shimura’s cook said you were quite talented, though I don’t think she approved of the random plants you’d bring in.”

You laugh.   
“One of the teas I brewed for her did end up giving everyone strange dreams,” you say. 

He blinks at you.

“It was an accident,” you add.

“Of course,” he says. “Either way, I used to imagine scenarios like this, embarrassing as that may be.”

“Were you half-dead in those daydreams, Jin?”

“No,” he says. “I was quite healthy, and content, and we were living in Omi.”

You nod, as if you can see the images yourself.   
“That would have been nice.”

He watches in silence for a while, matching the pictures from his teenage dreams to the vision in front of him.   
The girl, the woman, the fire and the smell of game.   
The knicks on your hand and the frayed edges on your garment.  
“I’m sorry,” he says.

You smile and shake your head.   
“Life rarely goes how we imagine it as children.”  
Then you sit back.   
“Do you regret it?” you ask softly. “Looking back on everything now?”

You’re not the first to ask, and the answer is no different now.   
“The actions I chose,” he says, voice only slightly hoarse this time. “I would do them all again.”

You nod.   
“That’s alright then.”  
And with that you pick up a small bowl and scoop it full of stew, before handing it over.   
“It’s not the most glorious meal you’ve ever had, but it will do.”

The two of you eat in silence for a while, nothing but the sound of crackling fire and the occasional huff outside, from Kage plodding around in the clearing in front of the house.

“This is good,” he says. 

You nod.  
“Of course it is.”

“I should have known you’d be confident,” he snorts. “You never did hold back to try and seem more proper.”

“I held back plenty,” you say, and put down your chopsticks.   
“But also, you barely ate in days. This stew would have to be pretty bad for you not to enjoy it.”  
You put the bowl to your lips and tip it back, savouring the spiced sauce. 

“Still, it is pretty good,” Jin nods, munching happily. 

“I’m glad I got to taste your cooking after all. It’s close to how I imagined.”

You smile softly.  
“Good,” you say.

* * *

_The salted air stings your face as you survey the world from the guard tower.  
You can see halfway across the island from here.  
Your eyes follow the coastline north to the snowy covered flanks of the mountains, and south all the way to the swamps, with Kaneda Castle rising above them._

_Below your feet, waterfalls pour down into the sea, an endless gurgling that was always so familiar to you, but now feels distant and annoying._

_“There you are.”  
Tetsuo, who used to be one of your father’s men, comes climbing up the ladder.  
He’s a friendly sort. Broad shouldered and scruffy.   
“I was sent to find you. The cart is ready.”_

_“Alright.”_

_The man watches you for a moment, while you take in the views one last time.  
He fidgets when your eyes come to rest on the main tower of the castle, its highest floors home to the lord and his nephew.   
“Do you, uh, need a moment?” he says carefully. _

_The tower feels oddly imposing in the light of early morning, its height looming over the grounds and the people below, a stone monument against a lead sky._

_There’s no fires there at this time. There’s barely any movement.  
Just still halls and the shuffling of servant feet as they try to remain invisible and unheard, mice in their own home. _

_You shake your head and turn to Tetsuo.  
“I’m fine,” you say. “Let’s go.”_

* * *

The muffled tones of a flute come floating out of your house when you return from the forest with a belt of wood and some mushrooms you found. 

The melody is soft and a little nostalgic, a sound both melodious and weary at the same time. 

Jin concentrates on his breathing, a steady, stable pace to produce the right notes, but then you drift into the house like a fluttering bird, carrying the winter wind on its wings.   
He can smell the promise of snow on the air as you flit by in a whirl of fabric and drop a few logs next to the fire. 

“Oof,” you say, and you rub your hands in the soft glow of the hearth. 

Jin puts down his flute.   
“Are you cold?”

“It’s freezing out,” you reply, shrugging off your coat and shawl.

“I made tea,” he says. “Why don’t you sit for a minute.”  
He leans forward and pours two cups from a small pot.   
The wound in his side stabs in protest, but it no longer makes him flinch.

You hang up your coat and kneel beside him, taking the cup in both hands and breathing in the fragrant steam. 

Your eyes flutter closed and Jin watches as your face, flushed from the cold, relaxes into a smile.   
He carefully takes the blanket that’s draped over his shoulders and extends it to cover yours. 

Then he leaves his hand there, a gentle weight at your back.  
He can feel you tense for a moment, before you relax again and take a sip. 

“I made room for Kage in the shed,” you say. “Put some animal skins on him too. He should be alright for tonight.”

“Thank you,” Jin whispers.

“You’ll be leaving soon, won’t you.”  
You hold the cup to your chest, staring at the fire. 

“My wound is better,” he says. “And I still need to liberate this island.”

“And then?”  
The words hang in the air like a puff of smoke, drifting ever upwards but refusing to dissipate.

Jin quietly sips his tea, the warmth of it welcoming but edged with a hint of bitterness from the burnt leaves.   
“I don’t know,” he says. 

He moves his hand further to your side and finds that you lean into his warmth.  
“I care for you,” he finally says. “Always have. But you already knew that.”

You nod mutely.

“I don’t know what could have happened, or what would…”

“We are very different people now,” you say, and your voice sounds oddly far, a faint whisper beneath the crackling of fire.

“True,” Jin says. “But we’re here now.”

You look up at him and your wide eyes hold a sky’s worth of stars. That same spark he saw so long ago, buried but ever burning beneath it all.   
He gently kisses your forehead. 

And when you don’t pull back, he kisses your temple, and the top of your cheek, right beneath your eye.   
“Do you want this?” he asks. 

You hesitate for a moment, eyes searching the lines in his face, the scars on his brow.  
Then you put down the cup and let your fingers smooth back his hair, trace the line of his jaw.   
“I do,” you say, and you lean in to touch his lips to yours.

Flames lick at the logs in the hearth, a slow, burning heat that consumes everything in its path. It spreads an orange glow that lights up the inside of the hut, growing shadows from teacups and lining the two bodies moving there in a copper gleam. 

The fire simmers slowly, steadily throughout a cold winter’s night. It sparks and sizzles, breathing warmth and life into the darkness. 

And it burns, and burns, through that night, until all that’s left in the cold light of morning is a faint glow drawn from spent wood, and soft breaths under layers of blankets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all,   
> thanks for reading.   
> I felt like this fic needed a little more fluff, so have that I guess.   
> I went and updated the rating to M just to be sure, since it is now technically smut (??), albeit of the heavily subtexted variety.

**Author's Note:**

> I am still dealing with the emotional gut punch that is the ending of Ghost of Tsushima, so I'm dealing with that through the medium of a very indulgent… fluff piece? My proofreaders have told me I can’t call it a comfort fic, so let’s go with ‘soft fic with canon levels of angst’ instead.  
> I hope it soothes your soul as well.


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